


The time we took for granted

by Bioluminex



Series: Is there a heaven for androids? [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Death, Disabled Character, Gen, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: "It’s the coward's way out. He doesn’t have to try to be anything. Not a police lieutenant, not a father, not Hank Anderson, born on the sixth of September in 1985. He's just a man with nothing left to lose, alone in his home, taking his own life on a rainy March night."Directly follows 'Hanging on by a thread'





	The time we took for granted

**Author's Note:**

> I won't keep you long, but I'd like to thank each and every one of you who has taken the time to read my work and leave messages. I read every single one. I intend to write more works for Detroit, but for now, here's the end to this series. I highly recommend you get a friend to read this one if you are not comfortable reading works with mentions of suicide. Your well-being matters most.  
> With love, Bio.

_Click._

No bullet in the chamber. Hank sets the revolver down and sinks his head into his hands. The weight is so heavy, ripping him apart on the inside, leaving behind a decaying rot tarnishing his thoughts. He wants to escape the smothering pain, the wracking guilt. _It wasn’t your fault._ Yes, it was. It was over and over, a thousand times over.

He picks up the revolver again, holding it hard to the side of his head. His hand is shaking so badly he'll probably make a mess of it. His finger is on the trigger, the desperate want to die is so fucking _real_ he can see it. He feels like he’s going insane with how madly he wants it all to be over. He wants to forget. He doesn’t want to feel anymore.

There's nothing left to feel _for._

A wracking sob rises in his throat, he can't do it. Fucking _coward_ , he can’t even take the easy way out. He hits the cold metal against his forehead, the tears streaming and leaving tiny round stains on the kitchen table.

“Fuck!” he sobs, pounding the table with his fist. Why couldn’t the truck have struck his side instead of Cole's? Why couldn’t it have been him who fell off the roof? Why was he always the one left behind?

Hank flips open the chamber, the bullet is still there. The alluring pull holds to him fast. He closes it, gives it a spin, and takes a deep breath.

It’s the coward's way out. He doesn’t have to try to be anything. Not a police lieutenant, not a father, not Hank Anderson, born on the sixth of September in 1985. He's just a man with nothing left to lose, alone in his home, taking his own life on a rainy March night.

Someone will likely hear the gunshot. The police will be called, one of the officers from the precinct will drive by to check if something's wrong. They'll try the door, look in a couple of windows; Hank's corpse will either be collapsed forward on the table or fallen to the floor, blood pooling around his punctured skull. The revolver and gunpowder residue on his hand will say it all.

Fowler will write an obituary, his desk will be cleared, Sumo sent to the pound. The funeral will be as what corresponds for a lieutenant once highly regarded and decorated. His accomplishments will be read out, the coffin will be modest and black, clean lines. He'll be dressed for the occasion in that tiny box; if he doesn’t make a mess of it, it could be open coffin.

He wonders if he should shave and cut his hair beforehand. He would look more like his pictures. He almost laughs. _Who_ _the_ _fuck_ is gonna care?

Hank knows all of which is to come the moment he pulls the trigger. He _knows_. He briefly wonders if Gavin will laugh or try to remain somber for the public eye.

 _Hank, please put down the gun._ Connor's voice whispers in the back of his thoughts. _If not for yourself, then do it for Cole. For me._

He can almost envision the android towering over the kitchen table, brown eyes shadowed with despair. He can almost see him, judging silently, every reprimand and plea ready to whip forth with all the emotion of a living, breathing human behind it.

But he never will. He's not coming back this time. Hank opens the lid of the tiny white box, gaze lingering on the artificial heart. Connor's heart.

A dark thought crosses his mind suddenly. _Could it have saved him?_

Hank will never know. He closes the box and tightens his hand on the revolver. No more, he can't take any more.

He just needs to pull the trigger, and it will be over.

 

**CYBERLIFE INC.**

**Initializing…**

**MODEL RK800**

**SERIAL#: 313_248_317 -52**

**BIOS 9.1 REVISION 0593**

**REBOOTING…**

**EMERGENCY_RESTART**

**CRITICAL_DAMAGE_TO_UNIT**

**LOADING_OS**

**SYSTEM_INITIALIZATION…**

Primary_Systems… OK

     Secondary_Systems… ERROR 

**Motor_Functions_Critical**

**Scanning…**

     Left_Wrist_Damaged

     Right_Arm_Detached  

     Right_Leg_Damaged

**INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS…**

Sensors_Deactivated

Left_Wrist_Component

     Right_Leg_Component

**INITIALIZING AI ENGINE… OK**

**SCANNING BIOCOMPONENTS… ERROR!**

**MALFUNCTION DETECTED**

**#9782f DAMAGED** – Critical 

 **#8457w DAMAGED** – Critical 

**Scanning_Biocomponents**

Initializing_Perephriel_Sensors… Functioning

Initializing_Audio_Processor… Minor Damage

Initializing_Optical_Lens…

Left_Optical_Lens… Missing

 

**MEMORY STATUS…**

**Functioning_at_full_capacity**

**New_file_available**

03/11/2039 11:46am

**WARNING! SYSTEM REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS**

**TIME REMAINING BEFORE SHUTDOWN**

**12:00:00**

**11:59:59**

**11:59:58**

 

Fingers dig into his chest, groping for his regulator, and Connor writhes away in fear, anxiously trying to twist out of reach from the clawing hands. His arms refuse to operate, one missing entirely at the shoulder, the wrist of the other crushed to a partially-exposed exoskeleton. His optical lens blurs with interference, vision coming online, in time to see the attacking android seize his head and bash his cranium off the ground. Warnings flash across his eyes with every impact, the plastic and metal denting inward, but he's helpless to prevent it.

Gaining control of his motor functions, he gets his good leg up beneath the android and _shoves_ , pushing them away a few sparse feet. A static hiss garbles from their vocal synthesizer, pale eyes flinty, and they crawl forward, intent on finishing him off.

Connor manages to heave upright into a sitting position and pushes himself backwards, panic rising as the android catches his ankle and clenches its hand, trying to drag him flat. _“M-mine!”_ it rasps, pulling itself into his lap and reaching for the regulator again.

“No _, s-stop…”_ Connor begs.

The android does, becoming deadweight, its face settling into a perfect image of blank dissociation. He watches their LED dim and turn grey, the life draining from them. Permanent.

It takes a considerable waste of his time to shove the corpse from on top of him and wriggle the rest of the way free, and even longer to get his good leg beneath him to clamber to a stand. Even then, he's wobbly, unsteady and bound to collapse at a heartbeat's notice, but for now he can stand and its enough.

Connor takes in his surroundings with his one good eye. He doesn’t know where _this_ is but there are a number of damaged androids laid out, all dead. His shiver is irrepressible, blank faces staring up into nothing.

11:52:26

11:52:25

11:52:24

Time continues to slip away, like water pouring through his fingers, and he looks for a way out.

 

 

It feels like he's been walking forever.

His leg drags behind him, severed foot sending up tiny sparks as the metal scrapes on pavement. His visual matrix isn’t running correctly and he's limited to seeing little more than his immediate surroundings.

Connor pushes on, resolute on pushing forward, knowing if he's stops he will never move again.

It begins to rain, his trail of blue blood mixing and washing away into the gutters.

 

 

There are four of them, all lanky youths just over the age of eighteen, leaning against the wall outside a convenience store. Young criminals from the rough side of town, switchblades shoved into their pockets with packets of red ice and crumpled cigarette packages. Two of them are drinking; the reek of booze washes over Connor's senses even a yard away. The brown paper-wrapped bottles crinkle as the tallest of the boys sets it down and gestures at the damaged android staggering along.

Connor feels more than a little nervous as the boys draw nearer, laughing and jeering, quick to pounce on the sight of the broken android wandering aimlessly along in the early hours of morning.

He flinches violently as one of the boys grabs him and shoves him against the wall. His head smacks against the brick, and he hears more laughter.

“We're gonna teach this fucker a lesson,” one of them says bitterly. “Show ‘em who this world belongs to.”

Something intensely hot presses into the side of Connor's neck and he cries out, trying to pull away, registering the smell of burning artificial skin, cauterized Thirium, and the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. Someone grabs him by the hair, jerking his head back roughly.

“Look at its fuckin’ _face_ , man. Tin-can’s been through a fuckin' paper shredder.” Something thin and sharp presses to the edge of his jaw, and Connor glimpses the steel edge of a switchblade.

“Where'd it come from?” one of them inquires, eyeing the remains of his clothing, poking through the shredded rent in the middle of his shirt. “Hey, _look_ at that shit.”

Connor jolts at the sudden intrusion of fingers prodding his exposed artificial heart. He leans away but a sudden blow to his stomach – unfortunately in line with his regulator - makes him sieze up. “Stay still, fuckin' pop can,” the tallest of the boys snarls in his ear. “We aren't finished with you yet.”

He doesn’t answer.

He also doesn’t _listen_.

Connor _strains_ , ripping free and crashing to the pavement in the process. He needs to get away, he needs to protect his systems.

A yelp escapes him at the first kick landing against his side, then he's being wailed on, the punishing blows raining down. They’re shouting, hollering crude and racist comments, abusing him where the impacting blows don’t land.

A warning flies across his sight as he's struck in the throat, shattering what's left of the vocal synthesizer. Crackling static spills from his mouth. Thirium stains his skin, the pavement slick with cerulean blue.

It feels like it goes on forever, but all he can do is endure it to the end.

 

 

Connor almost doesn’t want to open his eyes. He can feel; he can feel _everything_ that’s been done to him. Every bruising blow, every fracture, every patch of white skin stinging as it tries to produce artificial skin but fails. Thirium is dried on his skin, invisible to the naked eye, but he knows it’s there.

**New_file_available**

03/11/2039 11:46am

_Connor is on the rooftop, hanging over the edge, Hank gripping him with all his strength but is refusing to bow out, even as his hold weakens more and more. The patch of blood on Hank's shirt is spreading, his struggle to keep hold of Connor pulling the bullet wound’s undoubtedly painful edges._

_Connor hates knowing he's hurting Hank._

_“Don’t… don’t you do this to me!”_

Connor presses his cheek against the blue blood-stained pavement, saline tears running down his nose. The ground is hard, unforgiving against his broken body. Rain batters down, hissing like the static of his words.

08:39:44

08:39:43

08:39:42

 

 

115 Michigan Drive.

The house is everything he longs for and his chest compresses tightly at the sight. The old car is parked on the front lawn. He is crying, relieved and desperate, shaking in his artificial skin as he staggers his way to the window and collapses aagainst the sill. He looks inside, through the glass beaded with water drops, squinting a little. A light is on.

Connor sees him. _Hank_. At the kitchen table, the revolver in his hand. Inert panic surges through him at the sight. _No, no!_

He tries to call out but no words come, only the buzz of static. He stumbles, moving as quickly as he can with only one operating leg, dragging it through the muddy yard to the side window looking into the kitchen. He nearly falls halfway but regains his footing and, intending to knock his hand against the window, slams into it and hears the glass _crunch_.

Hank looks up wearily, the wretched grief in his heavy blue eyes vanishing like smoke as he flies from the table to the window. Connor manages a grim smile at the lieutenant as his motor capabilities abruptly fail and he collapses, propped up against the house's side.

07:51:13

07:51:12

07:51:11

He’s home. The rest doesn’t matter.

 

 

Hank isn’t too sure if he's dreaming, or if he _has_ shot a bullet through his skull and is on his way to join Connor in some fucked up afterlife where humans and androids coexist. He rushes out the front door in a haze and around the side of the house, bare feet sliding in the mud. It can't be real, _it_ _can't_ _be_.

The slouched shape leaning beneath the window is distinctly human-shaped, dressed in a tattered shirt that used to be white. Hank draws closer and reaches down, grasping the android's shoulders; an arm is missing, so is a leg beneath the knee, wires tangled with the scraps of a torn pant leg. The rest of the body is a warzone, dented and full of broken pieces, white plastic and grey metal exposed with blinking blue and red lights.

“Connor,” Hank whispers. The RK800 lifts his head a little, his remaining eye focusing on the lieutenant's face. It's familiar, warm and brown.

A soft whisper of static brushes out from Connor, nearly indistinguishable to a human ear, but Hank can read lips well enough to recognize his own name being spoken. The android looks confused and tired, but entirely content to remain propped up beside the house.

Hank is _far_ from content. He's literally at the end of his rope, somewhere between having a mental breakdown and wanting to shoot something. He bends, getting his hands under Connor's arms, and manages to hoist the android into his arms. He’s heavier than he looks but he can bear the weight, staggering indoors and crossing to the couch. He nearly falls on Connor as he lies him down, and starts to move away to retrieve a towel to at least dry him off, but a high-pitched rasping noise makes him pause and look down.

Connor's eye is round, arm half-extended as he reaches after Hank.

“I’m not going far…” Hank begins, eyes floating to the kitchen table. The revolver lies there, glaring almost accusingly. No, he doesn’t need to go to the kitchen.

Hank settles on the couch, gently cradling Connor in his arms, unable to look at the android and not survey the damage. It’s impossible to look away, and its just as difficult to look _at_ him and see nothing but a machine.

The soft brown eye remains attentively locked on Hank, focused and direct. It blinks slowly, and a small sleepy smile tugs the corner of his mouth. Hank's heart tugs a little and he brushes Connor's mussed hair off his forehead. The extent of the damage is… horrific, to put it plainly. No human would ever be able to survive this extent of damage done to it. If they didn’t die of physical shock and emotional trauma getting the better of them, bleeding out would be the first and foremost reason.

“H-how did you… how are you alive?” he asks at last. Connor shifts a little, his good shoulder lifting slightly. He doesn’t know either; he knows as much as Hank does.

Hank feels his throat tightening and he closes his eyes, unable to look anymore. It’s too real. It’s too _familiar_. He’s been through his before.

He doesn’t want to do this again.

Connor rests the side of his head against Hank's chest, a thin stutter of feedback whispersoft. Hank can see the LED is solid red, blinking occasionally in the dark living room. The android tries again, the noise a little harsher, but Hank lifts his hand and gently strokes his fingers through his hair.

“Shh, it's okay. You're gonna be okay,” he whispers, holding Connor as tight as he can without hurting him. “I’ve got you, son. I’ve got you.”

Then, a word.

_“Gun.”_

Hank’s mouth feels numb, his throat dry. Connor is staring at him, concern deep in the coffee-coloured stare, glued to Hank with a ferocity demanding an answer. _Why? Why would you do it, Hank?_

Hank doesn’t have an answer he can voice. He feels ashamed. Afraid. Rung dry and left in the sun too long. Forgotten in the dark. Alone.

Losing all he has left.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Connor strains, gaze pleading. He means the gun. He doesn’t want Hank to kill himself. With the few words he can muster, he's chosen to beg for Hank's life. Not his own, not for a way to save himself.

Brave until the end, always.

Hank can't make that promise. He wants to drink himself to death, throw himself off a building. He wants to do it a hundred times until he's as dead as dead can be. He wants it to be _over_.

But here's Connor, _begging for him not to._ Making him second guess. Forcing him to change his thoughts _again._

Giving him a reason to live. Leaving him with the only thing he possibly can.

A promise to hold to.

 

 

07:14:58

07:14:57

07:14:56

Connor's eye is closed.

“Connor?” Hank shakes the RK800 gently, fear like a knife embedded in his heart. The android rouses, blinking up at him.

“You okay?”

A small, weary nod. The kid looks exhausted. Hank holds him closer, a bone-deep pain resurfacing. “How long do you have, kiddo?”

“…sev…en.”

Seven hours.

Seven hours left until it’s over. Seven hours until the last of the RK800 line is permanently destroyed. Seven hours until Hank watches the world fall apart again.

“I’m gonna stay right here, okay?” he promises. “I’m not gonna let you go.”

Connor smiles faintly. He closes his eyes again. Hank watches the LED dim slightly, ebbing softly, in pace with Hank's breaths. It's soothing, in a way, lulling Hank under a comforting blanket of warm darkness.

 

00:01:00

00:00:59

00:00:58

Connor stirs awake. Most of his systems are nonresponsive, only the major biocomponents carrying him to the end. He can't move or speak, and even his visuals are fading out. But he can see Hank, and he can hear the soft snores beside him from the sleeping lieutenant.  

He feels… peaceful.

But he wants to say goodbye. He reroutes his optical unit’s power to his vocal synthesizer – there's hardly enough of an energy source to repair it – but he does so anyway.

His sight cuts out black.

“…Hank.”

He feels the lieutenant shift, and a light touch on his face. “Connor… _shit_ , I fell asleep.”

00:00:35

00:00:34

00:00:33

“I don’t have… long.”

A hitch of breath. His sensors detect a rise in stress. A hand curls into his own, soft human flesh clutching metal exoskeleton. Connor squeezes back.

“Oh, god. _Connor_ …”

Hank's crying.

It _hurts._

“I…” Connor doesn’t have to see the countdown to know it's close. He can feel his systems shutting down. Fear suddenly clutches him, tight as a chokehold. “I’m scared, Hank.”

Hank chokes on a sob. Connor feels hot tears dripping on his face. Connor doesn’t have the tears to shed anymore, but the ache is there.

“Is there a heaven for androids?” Connor asks Hank, his question a desperate plea, and a hopeful one. Maybe wherever he's going, it will be alright. If Cole is there…

“I don’t know, son. I really don’t know. But if you find Cole… tell him...” Hank pauses, the words coming harder than anything he's ever said. “Tell him his big brother is gonna look after him now.”

The sun is rising, a faint silver glow casting aside the monotone dark of night, and a robin is singing to the dawn. It’s beautiful. Connor can't see any of it, but he doesn’t need to. He's… okay with this.

“…dad,” he whispers.

Connor feels whiskers tickle his forehead, and the soft press of lips.

Maybe there is a heaven, but Connor's certain he found it a long time ago in a bar on a November night... two hundred and sixteen days ago.

 

 

00:00:02

00:00:01

00:00:00


End file.
